Courtesy of Shea Karssing
It's 11 a.m. and I'm still in pajamas crusted with rapidly souring breast milk. Next to the kettle is a cup of congealing tea. I'm ravenous and I need a poop. Instead, I'm sitting on my unmade bed with a 2-month-old baby who only ceases her attack on my chapped nipple to scream for reasons unknown.
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